My head spurts

seeds aligned at all angles,

tutu-ed from spear to pinhead,

ready to burst past security and fly

Anywhere Away

from me, they will land in the disrupted blue sky

of a circadian night. Yes, night,

even as daylight retches nakedness

it is as if my chin cannot tip upward, my gaze cannot machete past all the swan’s-plume

clouding my lashes: black ink

scars on heaven’s ozone.

Image Credit:

By Tiger@西北, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=53883239


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